<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>i sat alone in bed 'til the morning by ohliamylia</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24853372">i sat alone in bed 'til the morning</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohliamylia/pseuds/ohliamylia'>ohliamylia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>New World Magischola (Live-Action Roleplaying Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:27:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>505</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24853372</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohliamylia/pseuds/ohliamylia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>She aches so much for something so unreachable.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i sat alone in bed 'til the morning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Capricia is a <em>now</em> sort of person - when she wants things, she wants them now, and when she lives, it’s in the now. She gives no thought to the consequences of her whims, refuses to dwell in hesitation or consideration. She is a force of id, of immediacy, of over-embracing the moment. Anything that isn’t <em>here</em> is nowhere, and if not now, never. It’s a freeing personal philosophy, when she doesn’t think about it too hard. It absolves her, pretending it’s an uncontrollable force. (It frees her, pretending it’s a choice.)</p><p>It means the future doesn’t exist, and it means that six weeks is an eternity.</p><p>“We have <em>up to</em> six weeks,” Eden corrects her, “it won’t be that long,” and she’s been here for so long already that six weeks should pass like nothing, but she’s too - present. Hope has drawn her out from her hiding place, made her vulnerable. She’s aware of the present, overwhelmed by it, and the promise of an ending only makes her realize how long time takes when she pays attention to it, how far away that line really is.</p><p>She aches so much for something so unreachable that when she surfaces, she is sick on the astromancer holding her under. Her amusement is almost worth the hours spent in the cold, quiet, sterile now.</p><p>Her conditions improve, by a metric other than her own. Torture may be - you know, that - but at least on the astral plane, time passes differently. When you’ve relived something a hundred times, it’s almost like reliving it once. Minutes can bleed into days, in the labyrinth of her memories. Consciousness is less flexible. Reality robs her of her freedom to travel, to communicate.</p><p>Now that they’re under scrutiny, the healers make a token effort to do things right. Capricia regrets - she feels a twinge of - it’s <em>unfortunate but necessary</em> to goad the other patients at group therapy into tears, because the healers won’t take no for an answer, but they can’t socialize someone who is so clearly a danger to others. They leave her alone after that, mostly, until they don’t, opening the door and dropping a bag of personal belongings at her feet. Torn black leggings. A <em>P2A4</em> tank top. Her wand. Her <em>rings</em>. She puts those on first, flexing her fists, and feels a little bit more whole.</p><p>When they’re off the grounds, Capricia summons a fur cloak that she’s never really worn before. It’s heavy, imposing. It’s never been more real, and it feels false. She dismisses it and shrugs on a black jacket instead, flipping up the hood so she won’t have to see pity in Eden’s eyes.</p><p>“Is there anyone you want me to contact?” Eden asks, an offer, an assurance that no one would see her until she was ready Capricia considers the comfort of seeing her friends. She realizes the necessity of her friends seeing her to accomplish this. “No,” she says quietly, and then, “no,” again, because she’s gotten so used to begging.</p><p>Eden listens.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>